


Easy Work

by skripka



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2019-06-22 19:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15589290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skripka/pseuds/skripka
Summary: It's a rough town for finding easy work.





	Easy Work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ryuutchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryuutchi/gifts).



> smooches and cuddles to ipso for the beta.
> 
> Note from diana, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Pretty Lights](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Pretty_lights), which closed for financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Pretty Lights collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/prettylights/profile).

The sofa was as threadbare as the room, a worn brown-red color. Jeff pulled a thread from under one of the nails and examined it. He grunted and flicked it onto the faded green carpet.   
  
Afternoon light dripped through the windows in back of the hallway, highlighting the dust in the air. Jeff sagged his body onto the sofa and began to roll a cigarette. The last of his tobacco barely filled the paper. He grimaced and sealed it with a lick.   
  
It wasn't that Jeff was a lazy bum, not so much. He just wasn't into the whole working hard thing. Hard to do in an up and coming city like Vancouver. If this job didn't pan out, he was thinking about heading south. Maybe he could make it to that Hollywood place, see if there was a place in the cinema industry for him.   
  
Jeff was pretty sure those actors didn't have to work too hard.   
  
He heard a cough, and looked up. A young man, far too foppish with dark hair and eyes that matched his stiff-collared tie, stood there. Jeff pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew out the smoke carefully. "Is there a problem?"   
  
"Mister Morgan? Mister Kripke is ready to see you now." The accent was tinted slightly, and it took Jeff a moment to place it. Not too many Ukrainians in this part of town, but he'd seen stranger things in Vancouver.   
  
The boy turned on his heels, forcing Jeff to pinch his cigarette off and stumble up the stairway behind him.   
  
They turned a corner, and Jeff stood aside as the boy opened a door into a fairly well-lit room.   
  
"Come in, Mister Morgan. Thank you, Misha." Mister Kripke didn't even look up from his papers as the boy backed out of the room, leaving Jeff standing on another threadbare rug, hat in front of his crotch like an errant schoolboy. Kripke looked a bit like one of those east-coast schoolmasters, too, slightly pudgy and a shiny pate of a head.   
  
"So, you want work, Mister Morgan?"   
  
"Yessir." Jeff nodded, thinking that some politeness might be in order, considering that Mister Kripke's office was neat, if as threadbare as the hallway downstairs. Also, with the Ukrainian fop as some kind of majordomo, perhaps this Kripke put a lot of store on appearances.   
  
Jeff could do appearances. If this didn't work out, that Hollywood thing was looking more and more appealling.   
  
"Hm. Here since the last gold rush?" Kripke was still scribbling on various bits of paper, intent upon his work.   
  
Jeff grinned, as politely as he could manage. "Nah, but my daddy was."   
  
Kripke finally looked at Jeff and frowned slightly, taking in Jeff's scruffy apparel and face. "What kind of work do you imagine I might have for a man such as yourself, Mister Morgan?"   
  
"I'm not rightly sure, sir. I got your name from a friend of a friend, said you might need a hand doing odd jobs."   
  
"Hm." Kripke tapped his pen on the desk. "Are you any good at running, Mister Morgan?"   
  
Jeff shrugged. "I can, but I much prefer not to. Sir," he added, somewhat belatedly.   
  
Kripke snorted, leaned back in his chair and stretched slightly. "Running is overrated. I need a man who can stand his ground. One with a strong back."   
  
"I can do that," Jeff nodded.   
  
"Then you might have just earned yourself a job, Mister Morgan." Kripke bent back down over his desk, and ripped off a piece of paper with a number drawn on it. "You carry a gun, Mister Morgan?"   
  
Jeff shrugged. "I've got one, left over from the war. Not much call to carry it around, though."   
  
Kripke barked a laugh. "Yeah, you'll do. Here." He tossed the paper at Jeff, who grabbed it before it fluttered to the floor. "You'll meet the Jays and Sam at Wharf 17, close to English Bay, at ten p.m tonight. You do a good job, I may keep you in mind next time I need muscle."   
  
"Thank you, sir," Jeff grinned. "I won't let you down."   
  
"One last thing, Mister Morgan. You'll likely want to keep that cigarette unlit until you've finished the job and gone home." Kripke waved his hand towards the door. "Now, get going. I've got other work to attend to."   
  
***   
  
Jeff huddled in his thin coat, hat jammed close around his ears. His breath fogged around his head as he stomped his feet. Damn damp. It wasn't terribly cold, it just sank into your bones and made you shiver. He pulled out his pocket watch. Ten p.m., and no sign of anyone else about. He grimaced and peered around the corner of the warehouse again, just in case something had changed.   
  
He managed not to yelp too loudly at the tap on his shoulder, but only because when he jumped and spun around, the first thing he saw was the middle of some man's chest. Jeff's eyes traveled up and finally rested on a very large, very smiling face.   
  
"Hey, you the new guy?" a voice rumbled down from above.   
  
Jeff nodded, still a little cowed by the sheer size of what he was facing.   
  
"Cool. I'm Jared, and that's Jensen lurking behind me." Jared jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. Thankfully for Jeff's nerves, Jensen was normal-sized, even a bit short. He nodded in greeting, but maintained a vaguely surly frown.   
  
Jeff held out his hand, which was vigorously pumped by the giant Jared, and found his voice after a cough or two. "Jeff Morgan. You two are Mister Kripke's Jays?"   
  
  
"Yeah, cool, in't?" Jared relinquished Jeff's hand, and the reserved Jensen took a turn with it. "Best friends, and all that, too. Hey, if you keep on working with us, we can be the three Jays!"   
  
Jeff blinked, and saw Jensen roll his eyes. "Little quick, aren't you?"   
  
Jared shrugged, still grinning widely, while Jensen rolled his eyes to heaven. Jeff imagined he made that face fairly often. "I'm just friendly. People tell me it's 'cause I'm from Texas, but Jenny here's from Texas too, and he's a mite more quiet."   
  
"A mite, yes," Jeff nodded. "You two boys got any idea how much longer we'll be waiting out here? Or what the job is?"   
  
"Job's the same as always," Jensen spoke up, his voice a quieter, slower drawl. "And it'll start once Sam gets here with the keys and the truck."   
  
"Truck?" began Jeff, but he didn't have a chance to finish his question, because the three men turned at the sound of a quiet rumble.   
  
A dark-painted truck, lights off, nearly invisible except for the moonlight reflecting off glass, was pulling up and past them, its well-tuned engine barely turning over. Jeff pursed his lips in appreciation and thought. The owner of the truck must have had good reason for the lack of lights and keeping the engine quiet. He wondered again just how illegal this job was, and if he'd have time to run over the border back to Seattle again if they got caught.   
  
On the other hand, neither Jared nor Jensen seemed overly concerned, and it was a nearly moonless night. Jeff shrugged inwardly, thinking that he'd make the best of whatever the situation turned out to be.  
  
The truck backed up close to the front of the building, nearly missing their kneecaps, forcing the guys to jump to its sides. Jeff dusted his hands on his coat, looking back up just in time to see the driver jump out.   
  
Despite the stetson and denim pants, not to mention the hip-slung holster, the figure was unmistakably female. Jeff blinked, but the Jays seemed unsurprised, already gathering around the woman for their instructions.   
  
She tossed a ring of keys to Jensen, who caught them with barely a jingle. "Open the warehouse, would you, Jenny?" Her voice made Jeff's spine tingle in an almost uncomfortable way, and he tapped a finger to the brim of his flat cap instinctively.   
  
"Evenin', 'mam." That made her turn to him and glare. Jeff grinned back.   
  
She turned back to Jared. "That the new guy?"   
  
"Yup. His name's Jeff." Jared laughed quietly. "Pretty cool, right? That'd be three Jays to your one Sam."   
  
"Just what I need: three of you clowns," she replied acerbically. "Put him to work. I'm going to check the engine again."   
  
Jared nodded and waved Jeff over to the now-opened warehouse. Jensen had started without them, and was already pulling burlap off piles of barrels.   
  
Jeff let out a low whistle. "This the job?"   
  
"Yup. The Russians left it here last night, and we gotta transport it to Kripke's." Jensen slapped Jeff's shoulder companionably. "Looks like we're gonna earn our pay tonight."   
  
Jared moved further inside and hauled a cask to his shoulder. With a grunt, he turned and hauled it to the truck bed. Jeff sighed and started moving a cask of his choosing, following Jensen's more practical example. When the two of them made it to the truck, they lifted each cask up in tandem. After the second one was in place, Jensen dusted his hands together and said, "Ignore Jare. He just likes showing off," before letting Jeff follow him back into the warehouse.   
  
The work was tedious and heavy, but hypnotic. The three men worked in near-silence, broken only by grunts and huffs as they exerted themselves. Jeff took a short breather after moving most of the casks and leaned against the tailgate of the truck for a second. Jensen was shortly at his side, offering a flask to Jeff's hand.   
  
Jeff nodded and took a quick swig, coughing as the burn of alcohol stung this cold throat. "Vodka?" he hacked out. Jensen nodded, taking his flask back and his own swig.   
  
"That what we're moving?"   
  
Jared came outside carrying the heavy cask in two arms. He dropped it onto the truck bed before grabbing Jensen's flask for himself. Jensen shrugged and replied, "Say what you want about the Temperance movement, it helps pay our bills."   
  
Jeff chewed on that thought for a second until a new one interrupted his musings. "What's that Sam's story? Don't often see ladies in dungarees, even up here."   
  
"Don't often see men who can't keep their mouths shut, even for a little bit." The three men jumped somewhat guiltily as Sam came around the truck. "Please tell me y'all got the cargo set up before you started jawing like little old ladies."   
  
"Only a couple more, Sam," Jensen replied.   
  
"Then let's get them in the truck. I'd like to get  _some_  sleep before dawn."   
  
The men nodded, and scooted back into the warehouse. The last few casks seemed even heavier than before, and as they settled them onto the truck, the suspension seemed to sag lower and lower. Sam frowned.   
  
"That's it?" she asked as Jared loaded his final cask onto the tailgate. He nodded and wiped his forehead.   
  
Jensen pulled closed the doors to the warehouse and locked it up as Sam and Jeff tied down the bottom layer of casks. Sam nodded, pleased. "That's good. We'll drive nice and slow, and with you boys sitting up top, there should be no trouble."   
  
"Oh, you got trouble, all right," growled a new voice. The three men and Sam started for their guns. The new voice warned, "None of that. We're just here for the shipment."   
  
A tall man stepped out of the shadows, accompanied by five gun barrels, all pointing towards Jeff and his companions. Jared groaned loudly, but let his hands float upwards like the rest of them.   
  
Sam frowned. "Our shipment. Mister Kripke   
  
The tall man laughed. "We're not scared of Kripke. Just back away from the vodka, and we'll let you go peaceful."   
  
"What about my truck?" protested Sam.   
  
"What do you think? It's our truck now."   
  
"The hell it is," snarled Sam, and she pulled her pistol out of her holster. Her first shot hit the tall man in the shoulder, and he cursed loudly as he fell away. Unfortunately, instead of running, the other poachers decided to start shooting back.   
  
"Shit!" Jeff cursed, too, as he dove behind the truck, beside Sam who was also using it for cover.   
  
"Didn't your momma teach you not to curse around ladies?" Sam pulled off another round before crouching back down. Jeff fumbled his Colt out of his waistband and shoved the magazine home.   
  
"If I run into one tonight, I'll let you know." Jeff bounced up and pulled the trigger three times. Three rounds went off, and a wet thud had him thinking he hit one of his targets.   
  
Jensen used the slight pause in the fighting to scoot next to Jeff and Sam, Jared following with his big bulk a moment later, firing his pistol as he folded down behind their cover.   
  
"Don't nick the casks!" hissed Sam.   
  
"Sorry," Jared replied, jumping up just after Jensen did to take another shot.   
  
"Why? What'll happen if we shoot the casks?" asked Jeff, checking to see if he had any spare rounds. "It's just vodka, but it won't go up." He paused and looked at Sam warily. "It won't, will it?"   
  
She shrugged. "Normal vodka doesn't, but this stuff is pure. Kripke has to water it down to make it drinkable at all, and you got a taste of it in Jenny's flask."   
  
"Damn, that's strong stuff," muttered Jeff as Sam took her turn above the truck. When he finished firing a round off, Jeff turned to Sam again. "How mad will Kripke be if he loses one cask?"   
  
"What?" Sam was shoving bullets into her revolver, but paused to glare at Jeff. "Not nearly as pissed as losing this whole shipment, but still."   
  
"I got an idea." Jeff pointed at Jared and asked Jensen, "Do you think you two can jump on the truck if it's moving?"   
  
"Of course," nodded Jensen. "What're you thinking?"   
  
Jeff didn't answer, just turned to Sam. "Get in the truck."   
  
"What? I'm a better shot than these two," she protested.   
  
"I imagine you're the best driver, too," was Jeff's reply. "If we're gonna get away from this, you should be in the truck," he hissed.   
  
"Fine!" she snarled. "Don't screw this up, or I'll shoot you in the gut." Sam scrambled to the cab and pulled the passenger door open. Jeff watched her pause, and waved her in. It was too dark to really read her expression, but Jeff imagined it was quite exasperated.   
  
"Jensen, get ready to move. Jared, you see that last cask?" Jeff pointed with his Colt.   
  
Jared nodded. "You want me to toss it to the bad guys?"   
  
Jensen rolled his eyes. "Jare, we're the bad guys, too."   
  
Jeff barked a quick laugh. "Whatever. Just do it. When Sam gets moving, you two jump on board."   
  
"I hope this works," was Jared's reply as he took hold of the rim of the last cask. After the nights' exertions, it was more a roll than a toss, but it didn't matter. Jeff shouted, "Go!" and Sam floored the accelerator. Jared helped Jensen to the top of the pile, and when Jeff got a clear shot, he pulled off his last remaining rounds into the cask.   
  
As he ran for the dangling tailgate and the Jay's helping arms, Jeff was really glad he didn't have to stick around for the quickly spreading fire.   
  
***   
  
The rest of the job was pretty anti-climatic, even for Jeff's way of thinking. The adrenalin boost he got from the fight and explosion helped him ignore his protesting muscles as they stacked the casks neatly, again, in Kripke's other secret warehouse. Lucky for him and the Jays, too, they were able to joke and laugh about the night's work.   
  
Sam had gone immediately to Kripke's fop, who had been waiting for them. After closing the door behind the truck, he had gone to his desk in the corner, where he and Sam were furiously and quietly discussing things.   
  
Jeff handed the last cask directly off the truck bed into Jared's arms. "That's the last one."   
  
"'Cept that one that exploded." Jared's grin was wide as he passed it off to Jensen, who shoved it into place gently. "That was something, though. Gives you a whole new respect for things."   
  
"It does." Jeff stood and stretched out his back, only to find Sam beside the truck, four piles of bills in her hands. He looked back to where the fop had his head bowed over his desk. "Done already, Miss Sam?"   
  
"It's Miss Ferris to you."   
  
Jeff laughed and jumped off the truck with a grunt. "Then, done already, Miss Ferris?"   
  
"Here," and Sam pressed one of the stacks into Jeff's hand. "You got a bonus, not that it's my choice, but Misha thought you deserved one. He also says, you ever blow up anything of Mister Kripke's again, he'll shoot you in the gut himself.   
  
Jeff grinned once more and captured Sam's hand between his two. "Now that I got paid, is there any chance a gentleman can buy a lady a drink?"   
  
She rolled her eyes and yanked her hand back. Despite the acid in her tone, there was a grin playing around her eyes. "Soon as I find a gentleman, I'll let you know."


End file.
